Melissa Broder

The Mail

I am disgusted by the U.S. mail
its endless soul-crush pulp of catalogues,
Con Edison, mammogram notices
stinking with aggravation.

Just once I would like to reach in the slot
and come upon a stony hollow
or perhaps a tiny garden,
a plot filled with pint-sized animals:

token birds, a little hairless cat
and a mountain range behind it
miniaturized, a small wall of shadow
to gaze at as I loaf the evening

on a petite porch, a bit of loaf,
cubed cheese, an apple from my mini tree
nothing major just a light supper
on chippy, earthenware dishes.

This will be the depth of my story,
the stunning extent of my smile:
a scattered few pin-prick dung drops,
some night weather, no envelopes.

Melissa Broder is the author of WHEN YOU SAY ONE THING BUT MEAN YOUR MOTHER (Ampersand Books; 2010). She is the chief editor of La Petite Zine and curates the Polestar Poetry Series at CakeShop. Her poems appear in many journals, including: Opium, Shampoo, Swink, Five Dials and PANK. By day she works as a literary publicist. Find her online at


  1. "Con Edison" might be iambic.

  2. Wow. This poem is like a cactus. Prickly and green but with water inside.

  3. Nice COOK!!!!!! YOU SWEET MAN